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    Stories of a B-17 Bomber Pilot
    Stories of a B-17 Bomber Pilot
    Stories of a B-17 Bomber Pilot
    Ebook109 pages1 hour

    Stories of a B-17 Bomber Pilot

    By Andrew Anzanos

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Stories by a B-17 pilot who went from a ninth grade plow boy to commander of a B-17. Some humor has been added as well as the fears and valor associated with the 8th Air Force flyers. The 8th Air Force suffered more extensive casualties than any other major combatment group.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLulu.com
    Release dateApr 12, 2011
    ISBN9781257569151
    Stories of a B-17 Bomber Pilot

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      Book preview

      Stories of a B-17 Bomber Pilot - Andrew Anzanos

      Stories of a B-17 Bomber Pilot

      From Plow Boy

      To Bomber Pilot

      Squawkin’ Chicken Skipper

      Dewayne ‘Ben’ Bennett

      I dedicate this book to my grandchildren

      Ben

      Megan

      Jessie

      Joe

      Truth: Is It Really Stranger Than Fiction?

      This little booklet came about after I had read the stories of various folks who flew in the 8th Air Force during WWII. Their chilling accounts of the adventures they underwent thrilled me to the bone, and I was prompted to write my own adventures. One pilot wrote about being upside down over Berlin with his bomb bay doors open, and the bombardier trying to salvo the bombs. The bombs fell through the roof and tore away the dingy (there are two in the roof of the plane) and left a gaping hole in the plane. Later when the ditched in the channel, they had no dingy and had to tie themselves together, inflate the Mae Wests, and hope the British Air Sea Rescue found them in time. Which they did.

      My stories do not have the drama, terror, suspension, and horror of the average crew. We were the Squawkin’ Chicken, and the Chicken Crew destined to survive the horrible aspects of combat in the air. The Squawkin’ Chicken nose art caused the German fighter pilots to laugh and point us out to other pilots. They would swoop past us, and we could see their oxygen masks shaking with laughter and pointing our nose art out to the others of the enemy. As a result we were never shot at. We never had a hole in our airplane, were never shot at, and with all the other planes crowding around us for protection. Scorned at first as cowards (the Chicken Crew), we were later recognized as a leader, with the other planes crowding around us so they wouldn’t get shot up. It got so bad the group finally had to make us a lead crew, and we led the group about 15 times out of 31 missions.

      When we first started flying combat, the other crews marked us as cowards (the Chicken Crew). When we left combat and finished our missions, we were the most popular crew to fly besides. You would not get shot at. When I came home, a friend wrote me and said there were 32 planes in the 8th Air Force named The Squawkin’ Chicken.

      As you read this little book, remember these are the memories of an old man, married five times (now single), twice to the same woman, who has had a great time going through lo these many years. It has been real fun. And through it all, I have kept my sense of humor.

      As you read, keep your tongue in cheek and a dish of peanuts to munch on. Grab a beer, or a glass of wine, and relive the adventures of an 82-year-old man who still thinks beautiful ladies (those over 79) are works of art and a joy to be with.

      Yer Fren, Ben  

      THE COMBAT LIFE AND TIMES OF THE SQUAWKIN’ CHICKEN SKIPPER

      I was born in a tarpaper shack, on a hard scrabble, poor dirt farm in the middle of the United States. Iowa to be exact, in the south central part, not far from the Skunk River. The doctor arrived about 4 a.m., having been summoned by my grandfather. He had arrived in a Midwest thunder, lightening, and rainstorm. The rain had slashed at his old horse and buggy, and the top had not kept him from getting wet. He had taken a few nips of moonshine whiskey (called Coal Miners’ Fren) to help keep him warm and was staggering a bit when he arrived. My dad put the doctor’s horse into the dry barn, and while they boiled water they drank coffee laced with some Coal Miner’s Fren. In the one-bedroom attached to the shack, my 18-year-old mother suffered her final labor pains. The thunder boomed; the lightening streaked the black sky; rain slammed against the windows; and the howling wind shook the old shack. In the kitchen the coal oil lamp gave off a soft light, the old wood-burning stove kept the coffee hot, and started the dishpan of water to steaming. My dad, the doctor (whom I will not name out of respect for his kin), and my grandpa slowly got drunk on the coffee and old Coal Miner’s Fren.

      At about 5:30 a.m. on the rain- and wind-pounded morning of September 23, 1919, Edith Bennett (Nee Ansley) gave birth to an 8 pound, 21-inch baby boy. She wanted him named Dewayne Bennett (Dewayne from a romantic novel she had read), but the doctor on his shaking legs and in his quivering hand had written on the birth certificate Daine Bennett. (This was to cause me considerable trouble upon entering the service.) Afterwards, cleaned up, wrapped in a baby blanket, lying in my mother’s arms I dozed half asleep, half awake, very happy to be here.

      At about 6 a.m., the old rooster and his hens started waking up. The rooster, Old Watch, strutted out of the hen house and hopped up on a fence post. Facing the sun, he closed his eyes and let out a rip roaring Cock-a-doodle-dooo, and again, Cock-a-doodle-dooo! In the quiet of the country morning, the sound reverberated across the yard and penetrated the bedroom of the little shack. My mother slept through the Cock-a-doodle-dooo cry, but they say the little baby (me) instantly came alert, his eyes crossed, his tongue hung out as he tried to imitate, or answer the call of the Great Rooster. It was to affect my whole life. I would never be the same, and many years later a famous psychiatrist was to explain that I had been infected with what is called THE CHICKEN SYNDROME. It was from hearing the call of the Great Rooster both in the womb, and on that early morning of September 23, 1919. It all began that early morning with the warm sun rising over the rain-soaked landscape. To this day, when I see a chicken spread its wings I get the urge to fly again myself.

      My early life was filled with happy memories. Going to school in a one-room country school, walking the long distance in the fall when the leaves were changing color and falling, and walking through the cold and snow during the winter, and then the beautiful beginning of spring. I have memories of visiting my grandmother and grandfather, spending the night in their one-bedroom weather-beaten house with the big pot-bellied stove in the front room. They lived in a small town of about 450 people, and they knew everyone in town.

      My grandfather had two mules, Prince and Nellie. Prince was a blue mule with white hair sprinkled into the blue, a beautiful coat. He had been a mule that worked in the coalmines in Iowa. He had spent so much time in the dark tunnels that he was almost blind. He had taken ill in the mine and rather than let him die there they brought him out. He had recovered, and when they tried to take him back he raised so much hell they sold him to my grandfather. Nellie was a big old yellow mule, cantankerous and mean, but she and Prince got along great. They worked well together with the light hauls my grandfather contracted for in the small town. He hauled a load of coal now and then moved families, hauled lumber and ties for the railroad. All the light hauls he did into his eighties.

      On the farm we had two teams.

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